


The Case of the Missing Cocaine Bottle

by FleetSparrow



Series: Story a Day in May 2020 [10]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Quarantine, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24351175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetSparrow/pseuds/FleetSparrow
Summary: In which Watson has had enough of Holmes' drug use and decides that there are better stimulants for him to use.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Story a Day in May 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727173
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	The Case of the Missing Cocaine Bottle

The great plague that has fallen upon London has now reached its third month. In this time, I have seen neither hide nor hair of my dear wife, nor of anyone else outside Holmes’ household, save for the occasional patient that braves the outdoors to visit me. Holmes and I have cleaned our rooms thoroughly once a day. The only people I know who are still mostly about are the police, the postmen, and the street urchins of London, who deliver most of the food and goods that many deliverymen once did.

I write all this to give an understanding of where we found ourselves during the month of May, 188—. As I have written before, Holmes is not a man to be cooped up for very long. He was content when we thought—as wrong as we all were proved—that this illness would only last a short time. When our second month of confinement came along, he spent much of it a stupor of cocaine and morphine, alternating between the two whenever the mood struck him. I spent much time speaking with Mrs Hudson—perhaps somewhat unwisely, but I was quite worried about his health at the time—about his habit and what we could do to prevent him from continuing.

One advantage I had was that, despite my own natural inclination to laziness, Holmes on his drug would never rise before me, often not until quite lunchtime. And so, with Mrs Hudson’s help, I spirited away bottles and his hypodermic, transferring their safety to her capable hands. Holmes rose that day with little improvement upon his mood and when, after he had eaten in silence—though I had tried to break in with some conversation, but after a month of living with someone, there comes a time when much has already been said—he reached for his drugs.

I had turned back to my newspaper, aware that I have never had what is termed in the gambling circles as a “poker face”, and so busied myself before he could ask me anything that gave me away.

“Watson,” he began slowly. “Has Mrs Hudson been cleaning in here?”

“No more than she usually helps,” I said, still behind my paper.

I could hear him rustling through his things, though, I think we both knew it to be a frivolous exercise, as Holmes had an unerring sense of where every thing of his was at all times.

“Watson,” he said again, then stopped. He rose and went back to his room. I had a fear, then, that he had squirreled away some more of his drugs and that our efforts were in vain, but, after a few minutes of noise from his room, he returned empty-handed, and looking quite distraught.

“Watson.” I kept my gaze on my paper, though I could feel his eyes boring through it at me. “I have come to an upsetting conclusion.”

“And what is that, Holmes?” I asked, trying to keep my tone even. I lowered the paper and immediately wished I hadn’t. He was staring directly at me, his dark eyes hard and set.

“Where have you hidden them?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

“Please don’t—” He pressed his lips together, and a strange flush rose on his high cheeks. “Not right now, Watson. I just need to know where you’ve put them. I find it abhorrent enough that you have broken my trust, I can’t have you deny it as well.”

I sighed harshly and set down my paper. “Holmes, I am telling you this, not just as your friend, but as a doctor. You need to go off these drugs.”

“They’re only temporary, Watson,” he said, still standing.

“No, Holmes. I cannot stand by and watch you pollute yourself with them any longer. A straight month without break is abnormal, even for you.”

“I can handle it, Watson!”

“No, you can’t! You’re not handling it now!” I stood and walked to him, never more aware of his height than then. “One month. That is all I ask. One month of nothing. Then, I will tell you where they have gone.”

“I’m not a child, Watson! Tell me—!”

“No!”

We stood there, staring eye to eye, for some moments. The doorbell rang. The footsteps of our landlady came up to our door, and still, we stood, frozen.

“The afternoon post,” she said, depositing it on the table.

“Mrs Hudson!” Holmes said, breaking his gaze to look at her. “I believe you have taken something from here. I want it back.”

“No, Mr Holmes. I took nothing from here. I will see you for dinner,” she said coolly, and shut the door once again.

Holmes looked struck. He looked back at me, then turned on his heel back to his room. I did not know then if I had made the right choice, but it was the only option I could see at the time.

He stayed in his room for the next week, coming out only to fetch food, then retiring once again. I knew I had hurt our friendship—possibly irrevocably—but the deed was done, and I felt very little regret over doing it.

I found him in the sitting room one morning, looking worn and paler than usual, all wrapped up in his dressing gown, and sitting in his armchair, staring at the empty fireplace.

“Holmes?”

He sat silent for a long time, so long that I went ahead and sat down at the table to begin my breakfast.

“Watson. I have been…thinking.”

“That good.”

He sighed, but still would not look at me. “Perhaps you did what you felt was necessary. You were, perhaps, also correct that my usage had become problematic.”

I stayed silent.

“But I do not like the way you did it,” he finished, his tone sharp.

I moved to the armchair beside him. “I know, Holmes. If I had thought there was another way to get through to you, I would have. But you have been almost impossible to reach this past month.”

His lips twitched at the corners, though I could not tell whether it was from mirth or self-reprisal. Finally, he looked at me, his eyes clearer than I had seen them in months.

“I have been rather bad company, haven’t I?” he asked.

I smiled. “No more than usual.”

He actually laughed, and grabbed up his violin. “Come, Watson. Let me play you something.”

That day was pleasant, and so was the following week. Although I could see it strained him to not have anything occupying that great mind of his, we had once again become friends.

The next week, however, he was morose again.

“Watson,” he began, “What do you do now that you’re stuck with me instead of with your good wife?”

I must admit, my first thought was not of intellectual pursuits, but of more physical urges, but I soon dismissed those thoughts.

“I write to her. I read. You have not seen me do more than I might otherwise.”

He sighed and rubbed at his face. “That’s just it, Watson. There must be more you do to break up the monotony. My mind stagnates during the day, and I cannot face it. At night, my mind races, and I cannot sleep. How do you deal with such a thing?”

“My dear Holmes, how does any man deal with such things?” I asked.

His face, when he turned to me, was a blank and curious as a child’s. I looked around the room, feeling color rising to my face.

“Perhaps a change of routine would do you good,” I tried again. “Or a change in the arrangement of your bedroom.”

He seemed to think about this, for he looked away from me and put his fingertips together. “Perhaps you could assist me, Watson?”

“If you wish, Holmes.”

“Thank you.” He rose from his chair and went to his room, pausing at the door to wait for me. Wondering what I had just talked myself into, I followed him.

His bedroom was much like his side of the sitting room, in a state of controlled disarray. I had, of course, been in many patients’ rooms before, but this felt strikingly more intimate than I had thought it would. Holmes looked around, moving from one pile to the next, as if trying to decide where they were better suited to be. Finally, he stood back.

“No, I can’t think of anything to move. Everything is efficient as it is.”

He turned to me and I was suddenly struck with a surge of affection for this genius that I lived with who did not even know the contents of the solar system or even care whether the Earth revolved around anything. He gave me that curious look again, and I rather lost myself.

I took him in my arms and kissed him.

He froze for half a moment, and then, to my great surprise, kissed me in return.

We stayed locked in the kiss for several moments, my heart beating wildly in my breast. It was not merely the thrill of revealing oneself to another, but of being accepted as one of the same kind.

When we finally broke away, Holmes looked at me with half-lidded eyes.

“My dear Watson,” he said, faint color upon his pale cheeks. “You should have kissed me weeks ago.” Before I could utter a word in my defense—he was the great detective, after all—he kissed me, silencing my protests.

I let him guide me to his bed, and pulled him down with me. He climbed onto my lap, pressing his groin to mine. I could feel the heat of his prick through our layers, hard against my own, and I brought a hand between us to stroke him through his trousers.

Our mouths met again as we fumbled with our clothes, trying, in our haste, to reach as much skin as possible. Holmes got to me first, his long fingers wrapping around my prick. It took all my strength to hold back as he gently tugged. Finally, I reached him. I moaned at the heat of him in my hand.

I doubt any man has ever been coherent when in the middle of any sexual encounter, and I was certainly no different. Holmes had thrown one arm around my shoulders, his forehead resting against mine as he thrust into my hand. Our hands met and, our fingers entwining, we brought each other to a climax.

Holmes pulled me down to rest beside him, still holding me close.

“Well, Holmes, is that enough stimulation for you?” I asked.

He laughed, his dark eyes shining. “Nearly enough, my dear Watson. But I would say no less than this will ever do again.”

I could not help but laugh with him, and soon we were together again.

I know he, eventually, found his drugs, but he only began them again once our quarantine was over and I had gone home to Mary.


End file.
